


Cherished

by HidingintheInkwell



Category: The Real Ghostbusters
Genre: Baby Egon, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, deaging
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-09-02
Updated: 2018-09-02
Packaged: 2019-07-05 16:10:41
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 12,199
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15867120
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/HidingintheInkwell/pseuds/HidingintheInkwell
Summary: “So you really don’t remember anything about being a baby?”“Absolutely not. What would I have in common with a baby?”-------------------------------------------------------Egon is turned into a baby again, this time by a different ghost and for a longer amount of time. When he returns to normal, he starts to remember things that had happened, and they're bringing feelings with them. He tries to bury them because he doesn't want to lose Peter's friendship, but what happens when an accident brings those feelings to light?





	Cherished

**Author's Note:**

> If you are reading this on your phone I'm sorry but I'm not shortening my paragraphs. I still encourage you to read this and I assure you that there are others far far worse than mine in length.

_ “So you really don’t remember anything about being a baby?” _

 

_ “Absolutely not. What would I have in common with a baby? _ ”

* * *

 

It started like the last time. They’d gotten a call about a ghost terrorizing a clockmaker, only this time when they showed up, it wasn’t a Class Four wriggler trying to stop time, it was a Class Seven full body manifesto. And it was dressed like Father Time, complete with hooded cloak and an hourglass the size of a small child. It also had a scythe clutched in a hand so withered it seemed skeletal, which it held out toward them menacingly when they approached, Proton Guns held at the ready. “ _ Who dares! _ ” It howled, voice gravelly. It’s long grey-white beard whipped around as a sudden wind stirred around their feet. “Look, gramps,” Peter spoke, taking a step forward. “We don’t wanna hurt you, we just wanna know why you’re terrifying this kind gentleman here.” He gestured to the elderly shop owner cowering behind them. “Cuz ya see, this is his clock shop, and he’s got some pretty old clocks in here that you’re just destroying. Care to tell us why?” 

 

The apparition howled again, waving his scythe around in front of him, nearly bisecting Peter had Ray not grabbed him and pulled him back. As the Entity spun around, his hood flew off to reveal a bald, bleach white head and pale eyes wide with a desperate form of insanity. “ _ Where is it?! _ ” it howled again, eyes scanning the small, cramped space with clocks in varying styles and ages. It was then Egon realized the ghost was looking for something. His gaze followed that of pale eyes as they took in each clock face before moving on to the next. He stepped forward. “Excuse me, sir, but what exactly is it you’re looking for?” The ghost spun his crazed stare on him. “ _ I am Father Time… They stole my New Year and imprisoned me in there… _ ” he gestured to an ornate antique cuckoo clock laying on the Clockmaker’s work table with its glass face removed and it’s internal gears scattered on a felt mat beneath it. The dark stained wood depicted images of woodland creatures crowding around an elderly figure in the middle of a forest. The figure wore a long flowing robe and a sash across it’s shoulders. In one hand was a scythe, but the other held the hand of a small child, also wearing a sash. Father Time and Baby New Year, Egon remembered his grandma Spengler telling him the story when he was young. Every New Years Eve, Father time would travel to the Northern Mountains to find Baby New Year, to whom he’d hand over duties of Father time and then return to the Forest of the Ages where he’d turn into a tree along with all the previous Years. The Baby New Year, now christened the New Father Time would take over duties and age with the passing of the year until once again it was time to return to the Northern Mountains to find the next Baby New Year. Egon had always found the story a bit silly, but his Grandma loved telling it to him, and he loved his Grandma so he sat and listened. 

 

“They stole your Baby New Year?” he asked, looking up from the clock to the old man. “ _ Yes… they’d had hopes of ceasing the progression in time by capturing me and robbing me of my future, but they failed! One cannot stop the relentless march! _ ” He gave the hourglass a shake, sending the particles of sand swirling from the upper level into the lower level into a frenzy. “ _ For centuries, I watched as the world around me passed while I remained trapped in that clock. But finally I am free! And if my New Year is not returned to me within a half fortnight, then my revenge will be unleashed on the world! _ ” Father Time threw his arms wide. “ _ I WILL have my New Year! And then I will join my brethren in the Forest of Ages where I will take my rest! _ ” Egon was studying the clock that had been home to the ghost for so long. As far as he could tell, it appeared to just be a ordinary cuckoo clock, but in place of the little bird that chimes the hour, it was a small child carved out of wood. Baby New Year. He was just about to ask the phantasm about it when Peter spoke up again. “Alright, guys. Let’s bag ‘em and tag ‘em. Don’t worry Mr. Ghost, if we find your kid, we’ll send them right along after you.” 

 

The other three ghostbusters had their proton packs ready and cuing up. Peter stood in front, a grin on his face while behind him Ray held his gun, a ghost trap ready at his feet and Winston was prepared to cover their backs in case things got complicated. Seeing them, the ghost howled in anger, taking a swipe at Peter with his scythe. “Peter! Watch out!” Egon shouted, rushing forward to push his friend out of the way. The scythe was bearing down on him, it’s deadly blade aiming directly for his head. He closed his eyes, preparing for the inevitable. He wondered what it would be like, to finally be ended by a ghost. To be honest it wasn’t his ideal way to go. He always imagined his head being cryogenically preserved for future generations to study, but when one processed the fact that they fought and cheated death as a career, it had to come eventually. He’d made peace with himself a long time ago. He’d die with few regrets, and he was content with that. He took a deep breath through his nose, readying himself for the pain.

 

It never came. A cold breeze caressed his face, sending a chill down his spine, and was accompanied by an acute sense of vertigo. His head swam and the floor under his feet seemed to heave violently, buckling his knees as he fought to stay upright. White light pierced through his eyelids, intensifying the sense of nausea and he was instantly regretting the admittedly rather heavy breakfast Ray had forced into him this morning. Strong arms wrapped around his torso and slowed his way to the floor. “Egon… Egon? You with me buddy?” Despite the white glare piercing its way into his fovea, he managed to force open his eyes and focus on the dark brown ones inches from his own. “There ya are, buddy. You know, for someone with such a big brain, that was a pretty stupid move.” Peter was grinning that same, cocky grin they all knew so well, but there was something in his eyes that made Egon doubt the sincerity of that grin. Above their heads, he saw the lights of the proton beams reflecting off the clock faces, casting Peter’s face into sharp angles and shadows. “I’m still alive,” he stated, glancing down to take stock of his body in case maybe the scythe had missed and he now only had one arm or a gaping stomach wound that his body had not made him aware of. His teal jumpsuit remained intact. 

 

Peter offered him a hand. “Yeah, Spengs. It was weird. It was like, at the last minute, the thing just turned to smoke and passed right through you. We were all freaking out thinking we were going to be picking your head up off the ground or something and while that was going on, that spook got away. The others are going after so I told them we’d wait in Ecto. You sure you’re okay?” While Peter talked, Egon had accepted his assistance in getting to his feet. He stood on wobbly legs while he surveyed the clock shop. Somehow they’d managed to keep damage to a minimum, with only a few clocks lying on the ground in pieces and a handful of others still on the walls with nothing more than a cracked face. Egon noticed in passing that the destroyed ones all seemed to carry effigies of infants.  _ He must have been looking for Baby New Year _ . It took him a moment to realize Peter was talking again. “You sure you feel okay, Spengs? You’re kinda pale. What exactly happened?” Egon shook his head, turning back to his longtime friend. “I have no idea. I saw the scythe, shoved you out of the way, and then nothing. It was just like someone had opened a window. My guess is a corporeal manifestation unable to maintain tangibility when nearing solid objects.” Peter nodded along, long since used to Egon’s over-scientific explanations, and threw an arm over his shoulders. “Come on, buddy. Let’s head for the Ecto. No point standing around here for nothing.”

For Egon, the rest of the day was a blur. Ray and Winston had lost Father Time’s trail and they’d been on their way back to the Firehouse when Janine had called about a Class 3 at the library. Evidently it was stacking books in an attempt to recreate the Taj Mahal in the economics section. They took care of it fairly quickly, but not before Ray caught the corner of a macroeconomics book to the forehead. He was going to have a nasty bruise, but he was going to be okay. They bagged and tagged the apparition and headed back to the firehouse. By that point it was nearing dinner time and everyone was starving. Everyone, that is, except Egon. Ever since his run in with that Class 7, he’d had the beginnings of a headache tapping insistently at the back of his skull and his stomach was starting to roll again like he was going to be sick. They’d missed lunch due to the second call, so he should have been starving, but the very idea of food made him want to cringe and run for the bathroom. When they got back to their headquarters, the others headed for the kitchen and Egon excused himself to head for bed. Peter shot him a concerned look, but when he was waved away he turned and followed the other men into the kitchen to help with dinner. Egon dressed in his nightshirt, brushed his teeth, and was out before his head hit the pillow. 

 

The next thing he knew, it was a week later and he was lying on the catwalk of a clock tower in nothing but one of Peter’s t-shirts and a loincloth, the man in question kneeling next to him with a smoking trap and a huge grin. “Welcome back, Spengs.” Egon sat up slowly, taking in his surroundings as Peter handed him a pair of sweatpants. “What happened? What am I doing in a clock tower? Again…” Peter tilted his head, studying the blond. “You don’t remember?” When he received a negative as his answer, he continued. “You’ve been deaging for the last week. It was like that job with the Time Ghost who kept breaking clocks because it wanted to stop time, only instead of it all happening in one day, you’ve been dropping age for a week. Whatever that Father Time dude did to you that day in the clock maker’s office, I guess it reversed your biological clock or whatever because we all woke up the next morning to a 12-year-old in the bed you should have been in.” Egon stared at his friend in disbelief. Deaging? And for the second time? That couldn’t be good for his cellular makeup. “Wait, so if I had been deaging, how come I’m back to normal?” Peter gestured to the smoking trap. “We found Baby New Year. The spook thought you were the new Baby New Year and snatched you from the Firehouse. We followed it here and wound up finding the real thing and making a trade. Evidently it was one of those ridiculous cherub statues this place has instead of gargoyles. We just blasted it and released the Baby, and then nabbed them both. Ray figures we should take them up toward Vermont and let them go, let them find the whole ‘Northern Mountain and Forest of Ages’ thing.” The brunet was silent for a moment, gaze down passed the catwalk they sat on. “So you really don’t remember anything about the past week? Not the deaging, not being a baby, anything?”

 

Egon shook his head. “Absolutely not. In fact, had I not known you for so long, I’d think you were playing a joke on me.” Peter just offered him a chuckle and a smile as he climbed to his feet, but there was something Egon couldn’t identify in his eyes. It was only there for a second though, because then he heard their friends calling them, and Peter blinked, and it was gone. 

* * *

 

A Few Months later…

* * *

 

Egon had told Peter he didn’t remember being de-aged, and at first it was the truth. He  _ didn’t _ remember. But after about a month, he started to have flashes of memories that didn’t belong. Memories of Ray tucking him in at night with a borrowed Stay Puft marshmallow doll, Janine reading him fairytales before putting him down for the night, Winston and Slimer trying to figure out which foods to try to get him to eat while he threw cheerios off his high chair, but mostly memories of Peter. Peter playfully reprimanding him for throwing water balloons at Janine from the top of the firepole. Peter hoisting him up on broad shoulders so he could reach the bubbles Ray was blowing for him during one of the few breaks they had between trying to find Father Time and other jobs. Peter giving him a bath in the kitchen sink, blowing bubbles off tiny fingers and keeping the soap out of his eyes. Peter cradling him carefully to his chest while they napped on the couch, freshly cleaned and changed with the promise of “Don’t worry, Egon. I’ll still respect you.” A feather light kiss to the top of his head before he was left with Slimer in a final attempt to find the ghost and get him back to the proper age, and the pain he felt at being separated from his favorite person. He remembered skeletal hands gripping him tight and a musky scent of wood varnish and old metal, but he hadn’t been afraid when the Father Time ghost had taken him. He’d known Peter would come for him. It was going to be okay because Peter always came. 

 

They came at night, wriggling their way into his dreams and leaving him wanting when he woke. He missed the care, the attention, the love he received from his longest friend, and that idea confused him. He didn’t want to be fed, burped, or changed like an infant; he was a grown man and the very idea made him blush and cringe on the inside. But he wanted to be held, to feel safe in another’s arms while they curled up on the couch, or    
(he blushed deeply at the thought, grateful to be alone in the lab at the moment because Ray would surely ask what was wrong) to be bathed, feel those strong, sure hands as they rubbed shampoo into his scalp or ran a washcloth over his arms and...the rest of him. He wanted all of that, but not just from anyone, certainly not Ray, Winston, or Janine. He wanted all of that specifically from Peter. 

 

Egon shook his head. That could never happen. Peter was a notorious womanizer and Egon didn’t stand a chance. It didn’t matter that they’d been friends since college, if Egon ever brought up these feelings, these  _ desires _ , to Peter, the other man would just laugh and go all psychologist on him, spouting about how the age regression must have triggered memories of his childhood and how he likely hadn’t been held enough as an infant and those feelings are just his brain’s way of trying to regain a childhood lost to academics and that he was projecting onto Peter because his own father had been cold and distant. There might even be  a Star Trek crack in there, if Peter was feeling in the mood. No, he couldn’t tell him about any of this. Egon valued their friendship too much to ruin it by expressing feelings that confused him. He would have to study them a bit more. Or bury them in the deepest recesses of his mind. 

* * *

 

“Egon?” Peter stuck his head through the lab door. “Hey, Egon, Winston made waffles. Come on before Slimer--” his voice faded out. The blond was out cold at his desk, head resting on an open Tobin’s and an unusually messy pile of notes. Soft breaths ruffled a few of the pages and his trademark round framed glasses were askew. One hand was curled into a loose fist and resting against his nose while the other stretched above him clutching the PKE meter he must have been working on in a position he’d likely be regretting when he woke up. Peter couldn’t help but smile. The genius had been spending most of his time in his lab over the last several weeks, only emerging for the bathroom, a job, or when one of them came to get him and urge him into the kitchen for food or the bedroom for sleep. Or on one occasion, the shower. That day they’d gotten a call about a particularly slimy ghost and even though he’d been heavily doused in the rather foul smelling goo, he’d headed straight for his lab. Peter had gone down an hour later showered and changed to find Egon practically glued to his desk chair while going over readouts and occasionally glancing into his microscope. It had taken both him and Winston to get Egon unwelded from the chair and practically dumped into the tub. They’d all required a change of clothes after. 

 

Stepping quietly across the cramped room, humm of machinery muting the sound of his sneakers on the hardwood floor, he made his way over to the man he’d known since college. Egon hadn’t really changed much over the years. He was still hopelessly nerdy, but with a witt and a sense of humor drier than the sahara. He still had the same hairstyle, though now Peter thought he’d started laying back on the amount of product he used on it. Or maybe the follicles had finally been beaten into submission, accepting their pompadour fate to forever look like a giant cream horn. Another thing that hadn’t changed over the years was the way Peter felt about the other man. Since that first class they’d had together on the subjugation of the paranormal and the effects it’s played in history, Peter had been hooked on the geeky blond that at the time wouldn’t give the “stupid jock” the time of day but over the course of the semester had been worn down by Peter’s charm and persistence to become a friend he could count on for anything. Not even being regressed to a child could change that. 

 

That had been one of the most interesting, and terrifying days of Peter’s life. Even more so than when the football coach had almost caught him fooling around with a guy on the hockey team his sophomore year, or when he’d been about to give his senior thesis on the effects of paranormal belief on the human psyche. He’d been worried about Egon ever since the spook had nearly taken his head off. The other man had made it through the rest of the day well enough, only wobbling occasionally, but it had been odd when they’d returned to the firehouse and he’d gone straight to bed instead of joining them for dinner or heading for the lab to do research. Peter had been the last to go to bed that night, opting instead to stay up and watch a late game, but when he finally felt tired enough to get some sleep he’d taken a minute to pause by Egon’s bed and check on the man. His friend had been curled up on his side, an unusual position for someone who usually slept stiff as a board, and Peter had to briefly wonder if he’d been hurt as an explanation, but his face was relaxed and peaceful, soft snores emerging from full, slightly parted lips. Shrugging it off as a long day and looking too deep for a meaning, Peter changed and crawled under his blankets. Joining his buddies in the realm of dreams. 

 

Needless to say, finding the lump in the blankets of his best friend’s bed shrunk by over half when he opened his eyes had ensured he wouldn’t be getting any more sleep.

 

Egon was a surprisingly mischievous 12-year-old. He was quiet, his now slightly too big glasses constantly sliding down his nose as he poured over  Tobin’s Spirit Guide at breakfast that morning, but his true colors had shown when he disappeared up to the upper floors with Slimer, only to drop a water balloon the size of a personal watermelon on Janine as she was coming in to work. Janine had been dripping and angry, insisting on using one of their spare jumpsuits while her clothes went through a cycle in the dryer, and Peter had tried and admittedly failed to keep a straight face while he scolded the pre-teen with the wide, innocent blue eyes who tried to insist it was Slimer who’d done it, or at least had the idea to do it. While it was certainly funny, and Janine did eventually forgive him (hard not to with that face), it became a little worrisome when dinnertime rolled around and Egon was now the same age as most fourth graders. By the next morning he was down to the size of a 7-year-old, and by the third, they were woken to the cries of a terrified kindergartener waking up from a nightmare. They’d decided not to go out and buy any unnecessary clothing as they weren’t sure how long they’d be able to fit in them, so Janine had contacted her sister to see if she could use some of her nephews’ undies and pants, and Egon just wore whoever’s shirt was grabbed at the time. 

 

They got on surprisingly well with the shrinking addition, having gotten a crash course from the last time. They took turns watching him if a bust wasn’t going to require all of them, and Janine or Slimer would keep an eye on him if they all needed to be out. Winston let him help tinker with the Ecto-1 until he was too small to safely handle the tools, and Ray and Egon could often be found watching Dopey Dog reruns amidst small mounds of spilled popcorn, afterwhich Peter would take him while Ray broke out the vacuum cleaner to prevent mess, pests, and slime. Peter was surprisingly good with baby Egon. He had an ex-girlfriend from college with whom he’d stayed on good terms with, and she’d gotten married her senior year to one of Peter’s old teammates and they’d had a baby boy several years back. She was always inviting Peter over for dinner and he’d usually been assigned baby duty while she cooked dinner. He loved that kid like it was his own, and sometimes wondered what his life would have turned out like if he’d settled down and had a kid of his own instead of becoming a ghostbuster. He’d brought it up to her one evening nearly a year ago, and she’d just smiled at him. “It was never me you were looking for, Peter. You’re not the kind to settle until you find just the right person.” She’d paused to take a bite of her chicken and rice before speaking up again, silencing him with a finger tap to the top of his hand. “You’ll know the right person. They’ll be the one who makes you feel like you’re burning from the inside out, but they also make you feel comfortable and content. Like nothing in the world will ever hurt you so long as they’re there.” 

 

Peter hadn’t made the connection at the time that she’s said “they” instead of “her”, or that when she’d been talking about feeling comfortable his mind had gone to Egon, probably down in his lab putting together a new experiment to run. “Was that what it was like for you and Dave?” He’d asked, reaching over to wipe away a bit of rice that had stuck to her son’s forehead. How it had gotten there he couldn’t imagine. She’d smiled at him fondly. “Yeah, it was. I did love you, Peter, still do in a way, but you only made me feel like I was on fire. Dave made me burn, but also feel like it was the most normal, comfortable thing in the world.” They’d finished their dinner to small talk; how the ghostbusters were doing, how her job at the museum was working out, the kinds of things old friends talked about. He’d excused himself after a cup of coffee, knowing that if he didn’t go pull Egon and Ray from the labs they’d miss their guest lectures the next day. He’d given Dana a peck on the cheek, promising to come again when he was available, and hoisting Oscar up into the air for a brief peck on the head before handing the giggling baby back to his mom and making his way back to the firehouse. 

 

Baby Egon had reminded him of Oscar. The kid was going on Five now and had an obsession with fire trucks, dragons, and hunting ghosts like his Uncle Peter, but when he’d been the age Egon had regressed to, there were very few differences. It had been his day with the infant, the others having taken Slimer with them to a Class 3 invasion while Janine was out getting her hair done. They’d had pancakes for breakfast, and it had been someone’s bright idea to leave the syrup within reach of tiny hands. The result was a brown tinted, giggling baby with blond curls glued to his forehead with processed tree sap and the smushed remains of pancakes stuck to his face, and clothes, and high chair table. Peter could only thank whichever deity was listening that it hadn’t been peas again. The others had left for their first job still laughing hysterically while Peter did his best to mop up the pancake topping before plopping a still giggling and immensely pleased with himself Egon into the sink to get cleaned up. His shirt had proved to be a bit tough to get off, the syrup having soaked through the fabric and fused itself to his chest, so Peter had decided to go ahead and progress with the bath first, letting the warm water dissolve the sticky mess before he detangled the mini genius from it. When Egon had grown fussy at Peter’s attempts to get syrup and pancake out of his hair, the grownup had found a bottle of dawn dish soap under the sink and turned the impromptu bath into an impromptu  _ bubble  _ bath. The baby had grown much more manageable after that, happily splashing and popping at the mound of bubbles that surrounded him, reaching out wet soapy hands toward Peter, who took them and blew the bubbles off and back toward Egon’s face, grinning as his infantised best friend blinked in surprise, going cross eyed to see the cluster that had landed on his nose. 

 

The others hadn’t returned until nearly dinner time, having had several appointments mixed in with some emergency calls. When they emerged tired but relatively slime free onto the living space, it was to find Peter stretched out on the couch, dozing off to some reality cooking show, one hand under his head, the other resting protectively on a sleeping Egon’s back. The baby was curled up in one of Ray’s cereal based t-shirts, rump up in the air, one hand with its thumb in his mouth and the other clutching tightly to Peter’s sleeve. As they’d made their way quietly as possible to the bedroom to change, they’d each individually wished they’d had a camera to preserve the moment.

 

Peter pulled himself from the memories, reaching out a hand to brush a stray strand of hair out of the now fully grown Egon’s face. The man didn’t even move. Something about him had always stirred a protective instinct in Peter, something that for a long time he hadn’t thought himself capable of possessing. When that ghost had snatched the baby from right under their noses in the firehouse, he’d thought he was going to have a heart attack. He nearly had when he’d seen the Father Time spook holding Egon out over the catwalk of the clock tower. “ _ Alas, my New Year has been returned to me! _ ” It had cried, bringing Egon to its chest. “ _ Finally, I can be retired to the Forest of Ages with those who have gone before me! _ ” Peter was ready to zap and trap the ghost right then and there, but he was too close to Egon. They couldn’t risk it. “Come on, Ray, give me some ideas.” but Ray wasn’t listening. He was further down the catwalk, examining one of the stone cherubs through a cutout in the stone meant to aid in cleaning the statues. “Uh, Ray? The spook’s that way,” he gestured, walking up to the redhead. “Huh? Oh, hey Peter. I was just noticing something. This cherub looks like that carving of Baby New Year from that clock in the shop. Don’t you think?” 

 

Peter took a closer look at the statue. About two feet tall and made of white marble, the figure was a pudgy toddler with curly hair and a sash across it’s shoulders.  _ Baby New Year _ … Sparing one more glance up to where Egon was clutched in the ghost’s skeletal hands, he turned back to the statue with a determined look. “Stand back, Ray.” He pulled the younger man back by the arm before taking aim with his proton gun and firing. The stream of energy connected with the marble in an echoing crack, opening a long fissure right down the middle of the cherub. Immediately shutting off the stream, Peter watched as a cloud of pale yellow smoke rose up from the crack, taking form of a toddler with curly blond hair and a white sash across it’s chest. Behind them, the bell started to chime, shaking the catwalks with the intensity. “ _ What? What is this? _ ” the Father Time ghost said in its gravelly tone, staring down at the new addition with pale widened eyes. “ _ Baby New Year? But how… who?” _ He looked from Egon to the phantasm and back again, trying to piece together the turn of events. “Oh! I get it!” Ray spoke up, eyes lighting in realization. “The same people who trapped you in that clock, must have trapped Baby New Year too! Only they must have trapped it in stone so that there was less of a chance of the two ever being reunited! When you swung your scythe at our friend Egon, it must have changed his molecular structure, deaging him into the next Baby New Year if the original wasn’t found!” 

 

As the ghost continued studying Egon and the real Baby New Year, Peter felt his heart lodge in his throat. Egon was going to have become the new Baby New Year if he hadn’t found the original. He’d just taken a wild guess when he blasted the statue. If he’d been wrong, Egon could have been gone forever. He felt his knees give a bit, but he caught himself before anyone noticed. The spectre he’d just released from the stone was just floating there, staring up at the older ghost. It had its back to them, but Peter got the feeling it was aware of everything that was going on around it. He was just about to say something to Father Time when the small form turned, freezing him with eyes the color of pale gold. “When things have returned to normal, you should tell him,” it whispered in a voice surprisingly deep for its appearance. Peter had the sinking feeling he knew exactly what it was talking about, even as the others stood confused, looking between Peter, the child sized spirit, and the corporeal form keeping their leader hostage. Holding the brunet’s gaze for a moment longer, the New Year floated up to the Old Year, coming to stand side by side. “Put the child down, Old Father. We have unfinished business to attend to.” 

 

Father Time set Egon down on the catwalk and took the hand of New Year. Now was their shot. Raising his proton gun, Peter caught the two of them in the stream. Somewhere behind him he heard Winston readying the ghost trap. The moment the two spectres were trapped, Peter’s attention was back on Egon. The infant had started to glow slightly, and he was growing. “You guys go ready the Ecto and assure the mayor. I’ll get our fearless leader.” He was grateful when they didn’t argue, instead heading back down the series of stairs and ladders while Peter made his way up. He was already perched by Egon before he realized the ghost trap was still in his hand. He didn’t think he’d ever see a more wonderful sight than when Egon blinked open those intelligent blue eyes. “Welcome back, Spengs.”

 

A shift under his fingers brought him back to the present. He’d been unconsciously running his fingers through the soft strands at the back of the sleeping scientist’s neck. “Hey, sleepy head,” he whispered as the man shifted again, letting out a soft groan that mixed with the rustle of pages under him. Bleary eyes blinked open behind crooked glasses, and he smiled when his focus landed on Peter. The brunet felt his stomach clench at the look. It was official. Sleepy Egon was his favorite look. He was  _ so  _ screwed. “Didn’t mean to wake you,” he said, voice soft, “but I’m pretty sure they make better pillows than Tobin’s. Let’s get you to a real bed, yeah?” Blinking a few more times like it would help him process what had just been said to him, Egon nodded, accepting the arm Peter offered as support and letting the ex-jock support most of his weight. “Whoa, dude. Would you rather I carried you up to bed?” Egon blamed the bobbing motion his head made on the fatigue and half processed words because as soon as Peter saw it, he’d stopped, shifting to better face his friend. Egon felt his face heating up and avoided the searching stare he was receiving. “What was that, Egon?” Egon shook his head, taking some of his weight back off of Peter even as the act made his legs wobble and all he wanted to do was curl back into the warmth and safety of the other man. “Nothing,” he said, voice coming out garbled. He cleared his throat and tried again. “No, you don’t need to carry me. I can walk.” Peter was still giving him a calculated look, like he could bore his way into Egon’s brain and see everything he was thinking. The idea was terrifying. “Hey, it’s okay, Spengs. But you know you can talk to me about anything, right?” The blond nodded, giving him what he hoped was a reassuring smile before allowing himself to be led up to the bedrooms

* * *

 

It had been a week since he’d fallen asleep in the lab, waking up to Peter’s strong fingers running through the hair on the back of his neck. He‘d never wanted the man to stop. He’d been wary since his slip up, though; not letting himself linger more than what was to be considered normal under his touch. He knew Peter noticed though, because every time he’d move away or dodge a question about how he was feeling, he’d get what Egon had finally dubbed “The Look”. It was a calculating stare, like Egon was a puzzle that Peter was trying to figure out. What had the man worried, though, was the almost evolution of The Look. Each time it appeared on Peter’s face, it would morph slightly, like another piece of the puzzle had fallen into place. The idea of Peter finally figuring him out, of shunning his friendship and laughing at him for his thoughts, terrified him more than the boogie man had when he was a child, and made his stomach churn more than any rollercoaster ever could. He couldn’t lose Peter’s friendship.

 

It all came to a head one rainy Thursday. The call had come in from a dock worker, claiming that they were being terrorized by something resembling a 9 foot slug with tentacles. By the time they’d made it to the port, the creature had devoured half the fish the fishing boats had been bringing in all day, leaving behind steaming puddles of ectoplasm that hissed and steamed slightly in the rain that had started to fall. “That thing is U-G-L-Y Ugly,” Peter said, shouldering his proton pack and stepping around one of the violently orange puddles. “What  _ is  _ this thing?” Egon hmmed, kneeling next to one of the puddles and reaching out a pencil to touch it. The ectoplasm seemed to harden almost instantly around the pencil when he pulled it out of the goo. Reaching out a hesitant finger, he tapped the orange blob encasing a third of his pencil. “It’s hard, like plastic,” he noted, tucking the pencil into his pocket. “Still, try not to touch it. I don’t know how to get it off, as the rainwater doesn’t seem to be effecting it at all.” With a round of nods, the four made their way to the giant creature starting on its third net of fish.

 

Egon had no idea what had happened. They’d been fighting the creature for nearly an hour, dodging tentacles and ecto-puddles when they thought they were finally getting a handle on the creature. They’d driven it back to the end of the dock, and Winston, Peter, and Ray were holding it captive while Egon got to work. One minute he was readying the trap so that the other three could finally nab the manifestation, and the next he was flying across the dock only to collide painfully with one of the pilings. Pain shot through his shoulder as he connected with the concrete pillar and he instantly felt his right arm go numb. He’d just dislocated his shoulder. When he tried to regain his footing on the slippery wood, one booted foot landed on a patch of algae and he went crashing back down on the deck, wrenching his knee painfully and landing in a puddle of ectoplasm. It burned where it touched his bare skin, and he just avoided getting it in his nose. Unfortunately he did get it on his mouth, and as he raised his head it instantly froze, like someone had superglued his lips together. Over the din of pelting rain and screeching creature, he heard someone calling his name. “Hey, buddy, hang on there. Let me help you.”  _ Peter.  _

 

Egon wanted to tell him no, not to touch him or he might get stuck too, but the words wouldn’t pass the solidified ectoplasm sealing his mouth shut. He felt hands grip him under the arms, half rolling half lifting him out of the puddle until he was on his back on what had to be one of the only clear spaces on the dock. “Hey there, twinkle toes. You okay?” Egon made to shrug but the action sent a bolt of pain through his body. Peter caught the wince and frowned. Reaching down, his hand hovered over Egon’s injured shoulder. “Dislocated?” When Egon nodded, he moved his hand up to the orange muzzle. “Can you breathe alright? Anything else hurt?” the blond nodded and then motioned to his knee with the hand that had the most mobility. “Okay, I gotta go help Winston with Big Ugly while Ray readies a trap, but I’ll be back. Hang in there, okay?” With that Egon was alone again. Turning his head just slightly, he watched as Peter dodged puddles of slime, readying his proton gun as he neared the other two men and the monster. Large drops of rain blurred his vision and ran into his eyes, so he closed them, but he wasn’t sure that was any better. In the dark and unable to move, all he could do was listen to the shouts of his teammates, the shrieking of the creature as it was bombarded with proton streams, and the roll of thunder above them. 

 

After what seemed like ages, a hair raising cry shook the dock beneath him, and then all was silent. Was it over? Had they gotten it? Or had it escaped into the water. What about his friends? Were they alright? Blinking open his eyes, he squinted through rain clouded lenses, but couldn’t see a thing other than the darkened sky above his head. He wanted to call out, to get confirmation that his friends were alright but he was rendered mute, paralyzed, and now blind. He could feel frustrated tears leaking from his eyes and mingling with the rain that was starting to slow. Finally, a pale oval topped in shaggy brown hair entered his field of vision. A hand pulled off his glasses and they were returned a moment later slightly smeared but with visibility intact. “Hey there, sunshine!” Peter said with a grin, reaching down to grip Egon’s good arm and hoist him to his feet. There was a cut on the psychologist’s cheek that was bleeding, the blood turning orange as it ran down under his neck. Egon nodded to it as he regained his footing. “What, this?” Peter gestured to it with a dismissive wave. “It’s nothing, rain’s making it look worse than it is. Come on, let’s get you outta here and see if we can get this gunk off you.” Wrapping an arm around his torso to help take some of the weight off Egon’s bummed knee, Peter led the injured scientist back to the hearse and their waiting friends.

 

Ray drove them back to the firehouse at a slow pace, in part due to the slick roads and in part to not jostle Egon, who was half propped against Peter and half stretched out in the back, his injured knee and the amount of solidified orange ectoplasm caked onto his jumpsuit made it nearly impossible to sit up properly. Even with Ray’s extra care, though, every pothole and bump in the road was like a punch to his shoulder. He knew they were going to have to reset it when they got back, and while he knew he’d start feeling better after, he wasn’t looking forward to the process. Peter had taken to rubbing circles into his scalp from where he rested on the brunet’s knee. A few clumps of slime had gotten into his hair, but most of it had ended up on his clothing. Peter’s fingers skillfully maneuvered the goop as he ran them through Egon’s hair. It felt nice, and before he knew it he could feel himself dozing off. Peter woke him with a gentle shake when they reached the firehouse. 

 

“The guys went to go deal with our newest addition to the containment unit. Let’s get you in the shower, huh?” Peter climbed out first, reaching in to help pull Egon out after him, taking extreme caution with his injured knee and shoulder. As they started for the steps, Peter paused, shooting Egon a cocky grin. “Sure you don’t want me to carry you up the stairs?” If Egon had been able to let out the indignant squawk stuck in his throat he would have, but since he couldn’t he settled for shooting the man a glare, even while deep down in the pit of his stomach he felt a tight fluttery feeling. 

 

* * *

 

It was slow going up the stairs, Egon being forced to put most of his weight onto Peter, but the other man didn’t seem to mind. He kept one arm on the railing to steady them, and the other wrapped tightly around the blond’s waist. Egon tried not to think about how good it felt. When they finally reached the second floor and made their way to the bathroom, Egon had fully expected the other man to leave him to get changed and showered, but to his surprise Peter simply grabbed extra towels and closed the door behind him, leaving the two of them alone in the suddenly cramped bathroom. He reached around the frozen blond to turn on the shower and let it warm up before reaching for the buttons on his jumpsuit, pausing before he actually made contact. “We should probably figure out how to get this stuff off first, huh.” Egon glanced down at himself, then at Peter’s orange splotched jumpsuit, and nodded. Peter studied the ectoplasm on his suit, then the stuff on Egon’s face, reaching out a hand to trace the edges of it around his mouth. Egon tried to suppress a shudder, but was unsuccessful. “Are you cold?” Peter asked, but the look in his eyes said he knew exactly what was wrong. Eyeing a large splotch of slime on his sleeve, then the steaming shower, he shrugged and thrust his arm under the spray.

 

Before their eyes, the solidified ectoplasm began to bubble and steam under the spray before sloughing off and down the drain. “Well what do ya know!” Peter said with a grin. “Just takes some hot water! Well that would explain why the rain wasn’t working.” He ran his wet hand over the buttons of Egon’s jumpsuit, watching as the ectoplasm that had fused them shut melted away. “Come on, bug guy. Let’s get you outta this gunk.” Undoing the buttons, he carefully eased the material off Egon’s shoulders, taking care of his dislocated shoulder. When he got it down past his hips, he paused. “Wanna sit back against the sink to get this the rest of the way off?” Egon nodded, wishing Peter would hurry up and get the ectoplasm off his face while simultaneously wishing he’d been left alone to get clean. He wasn’t sure he would be able to hide his reactions to Peter with the man so close. Reaching back with his good hand. He guided himself back against the edge of the sink, focusing anywhere but on the top of Peter’s head as he knelt down to get Egon’s boots off. Thoughts started swirling around his head and he crushed them back relentlessly. 

 

Egon cringed when his injured knee was revealed. He knew he’d wrenched it hard when he fell, but the entire area was now a rather unpleasant shade of mottled purple, not unlike some of the mold samples he used to study in the labs at the university. “Ouch, why didn’t you tell me it was this bad, Spengs?” Peter shot him a half hearted glare from under the bangs that had fallen into his eyes, and Egon had to swallow back a whine. He wasn’t prepared, however, when Peter leaned forward, placing a light, gentle kiss on the bruised flesh, chapped lips leaving a trail of fire in their wake. Memories of similar kisses to freshly washed hair, tiny toes, and pudgy fingers flashed across his mind. A soft keen rose up in the back of his throat and he had to clench his eyes shut before he saw anything he didn’t want to see. Knees weak, he sagged against the sink. Why was Peter doing this? Did he know how Egon felt? Was he making fun of him? Egon didn’t think he could stand it if Peter knew and was just making fun of him. He heard a scuff of boots on tile and a rustle of clothing, and then there was a hand under his chin, tilting his head back. “Spengs, look at me.” Egon shook his head, clutching the edge of the sink tightly, cold porcelain digging into his fingers. “Spengs…” 

 

The voice was close, warm breath brushing past his ear and giving him a full body shudder. He whimpered when it jarred his shoulder. “Egon, look at me.” The tone brokered no argument and Egon found himself meeting Peter’s dark gaze. “I’m going to reset that shoulder before it gets any worse, and then we’re going to get you into the shower, okay?” Egon nodded, knowing it would be futile to resist. He knew that look well. Peter nodded. “Okay, on the count of three.” Egon took a deep breath, focusing on the brown of Peter’s eyes and the way his hair was falling in his face. “One…” he never made it to two. With a pop that echoed across the tiles, Egon’s shoulder was shoved back into its socket, pain that had dulled reigniting all through the extremity. His cry of pain was muffled but tears pricked up in the backs of his eyes. Peter was grinning, and Egon had to resist the urge to hit him. He knew no one waited until three when relocating a shoulder, but he still could have given him a bit of warning first. “Good job, buddy. Now what say we get you cleaned off and warm before you get sick.” Before Egon knew what was happening, he’d been relieved of his briefs and was being ushered into the tub and under the spray. He was now left completely bare while Peter remained completely dressed. He followed the injured man into the tub though, one hand framing his face while the other tilted his head back under the shower head, keeping the water and dissolving ectoplasm from running into his eyes. 

 

The hot water felt wonderful against Egon’s cold, stiff muscles and he felt himself starting to sag, fatigue suddenly taking hold with a vengeance. Strong fingers rubbed through his hair, rinsing away the clumps of slime and detangling it until the strands fell against the back of his neck in soggy submission. “Hold your breath for a second,” he heard Peter say as the hand that had been in his hair covered his eyes, guiding his head back under the shower. Egon fought the urge to open his mouth and take a breath as he felt the ectoplasmic duct tape that had sealed his mouth shut for the last hour and a half begin to dissolve. Even though he knew Peter wouldn’t let anything happen to him, the constant bombardment against his face and the inability to breathe was starting to get to him, tensing his muscles as he fought the urge to pull away and take a breath. “Shh, shh, it’s okay sweetheart. I got you. Just a couple more seconds, Spengs, and it’ll be gone and I’ll let you go, okay? Couple more seconds.” 

 

The hand behind his head came around to rub at the last remaining traces that coated his lips, calloused thumb rubbing against his bottom lip before his head was slowly eased forward out from under the spray. He blinked open his eyes, realizing that at some point Peter must have removed his glasses because everything was back to being a level of fuzzy achieved only through poor eyesight. Peter was close enough to where Egon could see him with relative ease, and the expression on his face set something off inside the blond. It was an odd mixture of sadness and something resembling fond exasperation. It was a look his mother often gave him when he was younger and working on a new idea or experiment, or she found a fungus sample in the refrigerator when getting ready for dinner. “Why didn’t you tell me,” he asked, voice soft and serious, and despite the hot water hitting his back, Egon felt cold. “Tell you what?” He asked, thinking maybe Peter was getting at something else, like the seriousness of his injury. Anything but where his mind had gone. Peter’s face got closer, hands coming to rest on either side of Egon’s neck. “Don’t play games, Spengs. You know exactly what I’m talking about. I know you’ve started to remember what happened during the week you were deaging.” 

 

Egon’s head shot up so fast he felt his vertebrae crack, eyes wide in terror and a blush blooming across his face. He didn’t need to look in a mirror to know he resembled a startled, sunburned tomato at the moment. “How do you…” Peter offered him a soft smile, thumb stroking the edge of his jaw. Despite his terror, Egon felt himself relax slightly at the soothing gesture. “You talk in your sleep, Spengs. Always have. Why didn’t you tell me you’d started to remember? We could have talked about what was going on in that big brain of yours instead of you trying to supress whatever it is that has you flinching away from me every time I so much as brush by you.” The blond dropped his gaze to the buttons on Peter’s soggy jumpsuit, unable to meet those dark brown eyes that somehow held the ability to pierce into his very soul. “Embarrassed,” he mumbled, “didn’t want you to find out. Didn’t want to lose your friendship.” The buttons he found so fascinating moved closer, strong arms wrapping him up in a tight but gentle embrace, rough hands tracing his spine. “Oh, Spengs, you’d never lose my friendship. You should have just told me what was going on up there”--he tapped a finger to Egon’s temple--“instead of going and getting yourself covered in orange goo for your troubles.” Egon snorted into the brown clad shoulder, arms coming up to return the embrace. It felt good to be held like this, now that he was fully in control of his memories and actions. 

 

“It’s okay, sweetheart. Now what say we get you cleaned up the rest of the way, huh?” Egon nodded, sniffing slightly before pulling back. Peter sat down on the edge of the bathtub so he could untie his boots and drop them and his waterlogged socks over the side and onto the tile. He stood more gracefully than Egon felt he had the right to when weighed down by several pounds of wet clothing in a slime covered tub and started to unbutton the suit, letting it drop before stepping out and tossing it out to join Egon’s on the bathroom floor. He still wore his boxers and a grey undershirt, but he didn’t ditch them like Egon was expecting. Instead he carefully turned the two of them until Peter’s back was to the spray. Picking up a bottle of bodywash and a cloth from the shower caddy, he soaped up the rag while giving Egon an almost calculated look. “Tell me what you want, Spengs.” The look on his face softened, and Egon could detect no judgment. “I…” his voice broke off. How could he tell Peter what he wanted when he could barely come to terms with it himself? Did he really want this? What if they started and Peter changed his mind? What if  _ he _ changed his mind?

 

“Egon,” Oh dear Tobin. He loved the way his name sounded when it came from Peter. “Egon, it’s okay. We won’t do anything you’re not comfortable with, okay? Just listen to your body. What is it saying it wants?” Oh, his body was telling him a multitude of things right now, most of which he didn’t even feel comfortable acknowledging, let alone sharing with Peter. “I… I want--to be held. I want someone to take care of me, like during that time, only not infantilized. I don’t want to be treated like an infant.” Egon had kept his gaze locked on Peter’s face while he spoke, looking for any sign the other man was going to make fun of him or show disgust in what he was saying, but he never did. Peter just listened attentively, nodding along at the appropriate moments. “I understand, Spengs. There’s nothing to be ashamed of. Everyone wants to feel taken care of sometimes.” Egon felt a wave of relief building up inside him, burning the back of his throat. Peter wasn’t judging him, wasn’t calling him sick or weird and leaving him alone in the shower. Peter was still touching him, cradling the back of his neck like he was the most precious thing in the world. “C’mere, Spengs.” 

 

Peter drew the taller man into his arms, guiding his head down until it rested in the crook of the psychologist’s neck. Egon felt weak, like his body was going to dissolve into a puddle at any moment. Dimly, he processed the rough fibers of the washcloth rubbing even circles across his shoulders and down his spine, pausing every once in a while as Peter adjusted his grip, or he encountered a bruise Egon hadn’t been aware he had. He was gentle, taking more care than Egon had thought he possessed the capabilities of. He fought the urge to fidget as the washcloth rubbed his sides, Peter taking care to apply just enough pressure to keep from tickling him, and made its way lower still. Egon buried his blush deeper into the man’s shoulder as the soapy cloth brushed past his genitalia on their way down his thighs. A soft whine escaped his throat, eliciting a deep chuckle from the brunet. “Please, Spengs. Like this is the first time I’ve cleaned you there.” Memories of diaper changes and sink baths flickered back briefly, and Egon could feel the blush spreading. Curse his pale complexion. 

 

Without a word, Peter turned him until he could lean back against the wall while he crouched to wipe away the last remains of ectoplasm clinging stubbornly to his legs, particularly where it had found its way between his boots and jumpsuit. Egon closed his eyes, letting his head fall back against the laminate covered wall and just taking in the sensation. He couldn’t remember ever being treated like this. Not by his mother, even when he was still small enough to not be able to be trusted to bathe himself, and certainly not by someone unrelated to him. He’d never had a significant other, having spent most of college in classes or in the science labs, and the only friends he had were fellow science majors to whom he only talked to when they were collaborating on an experiment or study. Peter was the first friend he had who wasn’t in the same field as him, and who wasn’t afraid he was going to be competition in the scientific community. Egon had valued that friendship more than anything else, had been terrified he’d do something or say something that would make Peter realize he could do so much better than a scrawny science geek with an obsession of the paranormal and drop him faster than a touchdown football. Now here he was, nearly 10 years later standing naked in a shower while that same friend washed water soluble ecto-cement off of him. Whatever his life was turning into, he only hoped he could keep up with the pace. 

 

A hand was tugging at his, gently guiding him down until he was sitting in the bottom of the tub, back leaning against a broad, soaked shirt covered chest. Strong arms wrapped around his waist loosely but respectively. Egon’s head tilted back against a shoulder as he relished in the feelings elicited by the hot water and the strong arms holding him. Illogical as it sounded, he dared not open his eyes, afraid that if he did he’d find himself all alone in the bathtub, all this having been just another delusion his brain had decided to cook up just to torture him. A broad nose bumped at his ear, hot breath against his neck making him shudder. “Stop thinking so hard, Spengs. I’m not going anywhere.” Egon nodded, sitting up so that he could turn and look Peter in the eye. “Why are you doing this?” he asked. The Psychologist tipped his head to the side slightly. “Doing what?” Egon gestured between them. “This. Taking a shower with me, holding me… bathing me.” He averted his gaze as he said the last part, aware that he was still completely naked while Peter remained mostly clothed, even if the now very wet clothing clung to every inch of him. 

 

“All that brainpower, and you haven’t figured it out yet, Egon?” Peter brought a hand up under the blond’s chin, forcing him to look into those deep brown eyes. “I love ya, Spengs. Have since college. And I loved taking care of you when you were stuck as a kid. To be honest, it gave me a purpose I haven’t felt in a while. I’m glad you finally told me, Egon.” the look on Peter’s face was soft and fond, but with a tinge of blush near his collar. Unable to resist any longer, Egon surged forward, pressing his lips to Peter’s. The other man reciprocated almost immediately, bringing one hand up to wrap around the back of the blond’s neck to pull him closer. Heat pooled in the pit of Egon’s stomach, leaving his entire body tingling. He pressed closer, balling his fingers in the grey material in an attempt to get closer, wishing he could just fuse himself to the other man. He shifted, trying to get closer, but the action jarred his injured knee and he had to pull away from the heated kiss with a gasp, tears welling up in his eyes as the pain radiated up his nervous system, effectively dousing the delicious heat and consequently the mood. Peter--the bastard--just chuckled, reaching across Egon to shut off the water before easing himself up so he could climb out of the tub. “I’m gonna take that as a sign that we should probably quit padding up the water bill.”

 

Egon watched as he shed his wet clothes, exchanging them for one of the towels he’d sat on the sink, and tried not to stare. He knew Peter was toned, one kind of had to be with their line of work, but knowing was one thing. Seeing it and actually being able to  _ look _ was another thing entirely. Securing it around his waist, Peter tossed another over his shoulder before reaching down to help Egon, steadying him as he stepped out and found his footing against the wet tiles. Tugging the spare towel off his shoulder, the brunet started to dry him off, taking special care with his now bruising shoulder. He took his time, making sure not to miss an inch of Egon’s body. By the time he’d tossed aside the damp towel in exchange for a warm, dry one to wrap around Egon’s waist, the warm feeling had returned, accompanied by a sense of relaxation he hadn’t felt in years. Peter wrapped another towel around the blond’s shoulders and grinned. “So, offer still stands if you want me to carry you. We probably shouldn’t aggravate that knee anymore.” this time Egon didn’t even hesitate before nodding. He was feeling warm and relaxed, and slightly shaky. He reckoned it was the retreating adrenaline from earlier, and he wasn’t sure he quite trusted himself to make it even just as far as his bed without his legs giving out. Without a word, Peter scooped the taller man up into his arms and out into the bedroom. 

 

“This what you had in mind with how you wanted to be treated?” the brunet asked, laying him down gently on the bed before crawling up to hover on top of him. Egon nodded, breath catching at the closeness brought on by the change in position. Peter’s grin grew cocky, sending a shiver of nerves through the prone man’s body. “You sure?” Peter asked, eyes flickering to towel clad hips before returning to wide blue eyes. “I could always powder and swaddle you again, maybe get Ray to bring up a bottle. I’m sure we still have one somewhere around here.” Egon felt his entire body go hot with embarrassment as he sputtered out an attempted objection. From somewhere in the back of his mind, a little nagging voice told him it had all been too good to be true, Peter was making fun of him. He hadn’t really meant what he said when he told him he wanted to take care of him. Mercifully, the voice was silenced when Peter, who’d been biting back a laugh, leaned down and kissed him. It was different than the first time, more chaste and gentle, but no less heated. A whine rose up in the back of Egon’s throat. If Peter kept kissing him just like that, then it was only a matter of time before Egon’s grey matter melted out his ears. 

 

* * *

 

After what was much too short a time, Peter was pulling back and climbing off the bed, heading for Egon’s section of the wardrobe. The blond couldn’t move. It was like every bone in his body had been taken when Peter climbed off him, leaving him feeling like a dead weight. He couldn’t even move his mouth to ask the other man what he was doing. Luckily, it became apparent when the dark haired man returned, dressed now in his pajamas and with Egon’s nightshirt and a pair of fresh boxers in hand. “Come on, sweetheart,” he said, tugging the limp man toward the edge of the bed. “Let’s get you in something a little more fitting for a communal bedroom.” Egon couldn’t find it in him to protest as Peter pulled him toward the edge of the bed and helped him upright, trading the towel from around his shoulders for his nightshirt and helping him step into his boxers. It was strange to be assisted with something he’d been doing himself for decades, but at the same time it felt kind of nice, knowing someone cared enough to help him. 

 

“Come on, big guy,” Peter murmured, tugging back  the blankets before lowering him back onto the sheets. “Are you… will you stay?” Egon asked, a lump forming in his throat when it looked like Peter was going to turn and leave. The brunet gave him a fond smile. “Yeah, buddy. Let me just take the clothes down to the washer, okay? We don’t want that stuff sticking to the bathroom floor.” Egon nodded, watching as the man turned and headed back into the bathroom and resisting the urge to curl up on his side. Why did the idea of Peter leaving make his stomach twist into knots? It didn’t make sense. Logically he knew Peter would come back; it was hard not to when they all shared one room, but for whatever reason, a growing part of his brain had deemed it fit to constantly tell him that the other man was just playing along to Egon’s fantasies, that he was going to go downstairs and tell the others just how messed up their resident genius was and they’d all laugh at him and decide they didn’t want someone like that on their team. 

 

Egon closed his eyes, hoping the lack of visual input would silence the nagging voice that was starting to sound suspiciously like his father, but it only seemed to make it louder as it went on and on about how messed up it was for a grown man and scientist to desire to be treated like an invalid. Feeling strangely exposed even though he was dressed and covered in blankets, Egon curled up onto his good side and buried his face in his pillow, hot tears leaking down his face. Maybe the voice was right. It was stupid for a grown man to act like this. He was a scientist, not some kind of deviant who derived pleasure from being infantilized. Peter was probably psychoanalyzing him with every look, seeing into every dark recess of Egon’s mind and extracting every little detail he could in order to conclude whether or not the blond needed to stay with the team or be sent to a mental institution. His brain kept showing him flashes of the “Chicken Guy”, as Peter had dubbed him. He’d tried to make all the chickens in the world disappear and when it backfired he’d been taken to the psych ward. Egon didn’t want to end up like that, in a padded cell being fed medical cocktails every few hours. 

 

He didn’t know how long he laid there, trapped in the hell his own mind had created for him and filled with images of him being stuck in a diaper and bib in a padded cell while his once considered friends pointed and laughed from the other side of a viewing window high above him, Peter being loudest with his ridicules of how stupid Egon was to have these desires. Tears soaked the pillow beneath him and pained whimpers escaped his throat, making him grateful he was the only one in the room. That was, until a strong but gentle hand landed on his shoulder with a squeeze. Egon flinched involuntarily, eyes flying open to see Peter sitting on the edge of the bed with an ice pack in his hand and concern in his eyes. “Spengs, you okay? What’s wrong?” Egon shook his head quickly, trying to sit up and wipe his face at the same time, only to be pushed back down by the hand still on his shoulder. “Uh uh. I’m not playing that game again, Spengs. What’s wrong? Are you in pain? Because I can go get some meds from the cabinet real fast.” 

 

Egon shook his head again, slower this time. “It’s nothing, Peter. I’m just… I’m just not sure why you’re doing this is all; why you, a trained psychologist, are catering to my silly fantasies.” He tried to keep his voice neutral, focusing on the bathroom door instead of the man perched on the edge of his bed, but even he could hear the slight wobble in it. He couldn’t remember the last time something had gotten him this emotional, but here he was, about to bawl his eyes out for the umpteenth time that day. A cold, damp hand touched his overly hot face, wiping away the remaining tear tracks on his cheek. “Spengs, I’m not going to admit you into the nuthouse for feeling the way you are. I’ve already told you, it’s perfectly normal. And I’m not leaving either. I like taking care of you, I’m not going to laugh at you and then turn my back. You’ve known me for too long to still be entertaining those thoughts. I love you, Egon, and I’m not going anywhere.” 

  
The scientist was paralyzed. Peter had just told him he loved him. Peter never told  _ anyone  _ he loved them, except maybe his mom, but certainly not any of the girls he’d dated through college, and if he ever had, he hadn’t meant it. He’d said it because that’s what they’d wanted to hear. But he’d just told Egon, his  _ male best friend _ that he loved him without a trace of irony. And he’d kissed him, not just once, but twice. And he was leaning down to do it again, offering Egon a peck on his stunned lips, then on the tip of his nose, then on his forehead before bringing his own down, dark tousled bangs brushing against Egon’s tingling skin as he gazed into his eyes. “Get it now, Spengs? There’s no need for freaking out. I’m not going anywhere. In fact…” Peter sat up, urging Egon to slide over and make room for him on the moderately sized bed before sliding under the covers to join him. “I brought up an ice pack, figured we should probably keep the swelling down on that knee. Winston recons your shoulder will be fine so long as you keep it still for a few days, and before you ask, no. I didn’t tell them about what’s going on between us, though I think they probably suspect something.” Wrapping the cold pack up in a spare dishtowel, Peter set it against Egon’s wrenched knee and holding it in place with his own. “There we go. It’ll be a bit chilly, but you’ll feel better in a few. Now try to get some sleep, Spengs. I’ll be right here.” Egon nodded, already feeling the cold seeping into his bones and sending a damp numbness down his leg. His eyelids were growing heavy, so he let them drop, snuggling deeper into the warmth at his front and breathing in a scent that was distinctly Peter. If he could have this anytime he wanted, he’d gladly take being turned into a baby. Just maybe not quite so soon. 


End file.
